


Falling from the Sky

by zoodream



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Zoo TV Tour (U2)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoodream/pseuds/zoodream
Summary: After the first ZooTV show, Bono gives in to temptation. Or maybe it's the other way around.





	Falling from the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissEllaVation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/gifts).



> This takes place (like the rest of my U2 fics) in an alternate universe where Bono and Edge never found their real-life partners.
> 
> For MissEllaVation, who rescued this fic from an unfinished state of purgatory by asking all the right questions.

The day the costume designer hands you that sleeveless shirt, I’m well and truly fucked.

Hot pink -- or is it magenta? Purple? I have no idea. Whatever it is, that shirt utterly nails the More-Is-More aesthetic we’ve dreamed up for Zoo TV. It’s more than a little ridiculous, nothing like the artsy pirate-cowboy shirts you usually wear. _Everything you know is wrong._ I think you came up with that one.

“If I’m wearing a fuckin’ plastic suit, you can meet me halfway,” I tell you, as you accept the shirt with raised eyebrows and a laugh of disbelief. We are so far down this rabbit hole, Edge. We’re either going to ascend to the heavens on a tower of Trabants, or we’re going to collapse under the weight of a thousand expensive TV screens. It’s anybody’s guess.

You’re the one who writes bulleted lists, refers to instruction manuals. But I bet even you couldn’t retrace the path we took to get here, a blind zig-zag through faith and luck, chasing our white rabbit of crazy ideas. And now here you are with this fucking pink shirt, and I feel like Alice on a handful of mushrooms.

That’s also usually your area, but that’s a story for another day.

You take that shirt in stride, though, like you take most things. You swap it for your plain henley, which you discard over a chair. Your shoulders are perfectly smooth, pale and freckled. Is it wrong that I want to bite them? They look so biteable.

“Perfect,” Adam tells you, never one to fear a sleeveless choice. Or a skirt, for that matter.

You look skeptical as you study yourself in the dressing room mirror. Pink? Fuchsia? I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, because on you, it’s bright and loose, and that’s all I want this tour to be.

It’s all I want you to be, too. Bright, and loose, and free.

* * *

Our first Zoo TV show doesn’t end. It just keeps going, spilling into dressing rooms, pouring into one long party that pulses its way from one hotel room to the next. Sweat slides down the small of my back in the close air of the hotel’s crowded penthouse. Two hours spent outside my own body, two hours of oblivion and catharsis, and I’m not really sure what I need right now. Booze seems like a fine idea. A cigarette, also good.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I do know what I need.

I beg a minute of fresh air from the cluster of journalists who’ve somehow wormed their way into the festivities, snag a fresh drink from the tray of a helpful hotel employee, and duck out to the suite’s expansive balcony.

That show was not of this earth. I, also, was not of this earth. Those shades set me free to leer and strut and snarl and roar. It feels like we’ve been living in black and white, and now we’re fucking rainbows, alive on a thousand shiny screens. I can project myself a hundred different ways, let my eyes linger as the camera follows you. I can drag that camera’s lens up your body and watch you dance like we’re in a packed nightclub.

That damn shirt of yours.

The Florida night air is warm and humid and entirely unhelpful. I find a cigarette in a half-crushed pack in my pocket and let myself think about exactly what I need, and the sounds you might make if it actually happened.

The glass door to the balcony squeaks as someone slides it open, then closes it. I try to steer my thoughts into a more appropriate lane, but instead my brain crashes into a thousand images: your hands, your shoulders, your neck. Thousands of writhing bodies out there tonight, and I can only think of one.

“You okay, B?”

Of course you would find me right now. You have uncanny radar for that sort of thing.

Because you’re definitely from Mars, you barely look like you’ve broken a sweat. I’ve managed a change of clothes -- a synthetic suit is not happening in this weather -- but not you, my perfect alien. You’re still wearing that fucking pink shirt, buttons undone, and your usual display of chest hair and freckled skin.

Maybe I’m a little bit undone, myself.

“I’m fine,” I tell you, offering a cigarette. “Too many people.”

You take it. Sinners, both of us. “That’s a new one. For you, anyway.”

I allow myself a devilish grin. “I like to keep you guessing. Chaos specialist, that’s my job title.”

“What does that make me?”

“Um. A chaos specialist... specialist?”

We laugh, and I can hear the cigarette in my voice already. I shouldn’t smoke. I shouldn’t do a lot of things.

We’ve been so good for so long, so pious, so serious. Veritable monks of rock-n-roll, on a pilgrimage through the desert. I’m not sure where that got us. Well, I do know: it got us to this tour, to this party, to this balcony, to this cigarette. This cigarette that tastes like sin, that I want to suck on until it burns straight down to my fingers.

I’m tired of being good. Lately, I get the feeling you might be tired of it, too.

Inevitability is a funny word. We’ve talked a lot, you and I, about faith, about fate. About the day Larry put up that notice on the board, and the way the universe drew blinking arrows across the sky that led us all to each other. We’ve used a lot of different words over the years for that power, that force that drew us together and made sure we were in that kitchen.

But we haven’t used a lot of words for the power between us. Just the two of us. It’s always been there. And I wonder, now, if this is the day, if this is the moment we will fall toward each other like those blinking arrows across the sky.

I wonder if it would be a sin not to let it happen.

You blow a plume of smoke into the darkness beyond the balcony, cock an eyebrow, and give me a wicked smile. You’re usually so calm, so reflective, like the still surface of a pond -- that’s what I like to tell you, anyway, because it’s poetic and I’m insufferable that way. But right now you don’t look reflective, and the glint in your eyes is closer to lightning than clear skies. Right now, with that cigarette in your hand, with that glint in your eyes, you look like... a rock star. An actual rock star, The Edge. You’d deny it, of course, but I don’t think you’re feeling all that humble right now.

Fuck it. You shouldn’t feel humble. You’re allowed to enjoy a little triumph after the way you played tonight. In fact, you should enjoy the hell out of it. Someone should tell you to drink it all in. It’s all right.

I sidle closer to you and nudge your shoulder with mine. We lean on the balcony railing and take long, slow drags of our horrible cigarettes, and I can tell you’re enjoying every single lungful.

“Not bad,” I say. The night, the show, the view, you here with me right now: I can’t be more specific.

You study the cigarette in your hand, and your shoulder brushes mine just a little bit. “Not bad at all.”

I drop into a mock British accent, like a slightly evil BBC television presenter. “I think the concept of good and bad is highly overrated.”

“Do you now.”

“Mmm.” I study your profile, the long slope of your nose, that perfect cliff of a chin with its new growth of goatee. “One man’s good is another man’s wicked, isn’t that what they say?”

You give me a look I know well, the one that says you have a lot of practice putting up with my bullshit. “You could have had quite a career writing fortune cookies, B.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “He who throws stones should think before breaking windows.”

You throw back your head and laugh, an open, beautiful sound. Then you give me that sideways smile again. “Exactly.”

You’re too much for me in this moment. I’m smothered by want, and need, and pure affection. It fills my lungs like the humid air, like smoke, and I have to duck my head and look desperately for my drink. It’s on the railing, an arm’s length away, and I grope for it and take a hefty sip. Do you have a drink, Edge? I think you might need one. I certainly do.

I think I might not be able to stop anything that happens tonight.

I hold out my half-full drink, whiskey on the rocks, and you take it with a nod of thanks. You might already be a little bit drunk, actually. I might be too, but it’s our party, after all.

I love it when you’re drunk, did you know that? You’re such a good kid, but you can be trouble when no one’s looking. Setting little fires, sneaking out late, raiding the liquor cabinet and never saying a word about it, but handing me the bottle later. You may be an angel, but your halo’s a tiny bit askew. Looks better on you that way.

“Cheers,” you say, and lift my drink. Your eyes meet mine as you take a sip, and that glint is still there, that crackle of electric light, and my heart nearly stops.

“You were amazing tonight,” I tell you, the whiskey letting my thoughts loose. Amazing in so many ways, but I’m not going into detail. The way you looked at me over the mic we shared, the way you kept finding me on that huge stage, the way you leaned into me and let me take your weight. The two of us, back-to-back.

The faintest hint of color rises in your cheeks. “It was you. You were something else.”

“I don’t know, Edge, I can’t even think when I’m out there. I don’t know how it ever works out.” I raise an eyebrow. “It did work out, didn’t it?”

That wide grin. “Yeah. I think it did.”

We’re close now, I realize, closer than we really need to be on such a warm night, but I’m not complaining. You pass the drink back to me, and God, your wrists, your hands. How I managed not to think about them for so many years is a mystery.

We were kids, I guess. I was going in a thousand different directions back then. And now I’m headed in one direction, irrevocably, burning up in your orbit, and I’m not even sure you know.

I’m not sure I want you to know. Is it obvious? Am I giving it all away?

I drain the rest of the drink and set it down on the railing, then realize almost too late that I’ve let my cigarette burn nearly down to my fingers. I jam it hastily into the watery ice left in the empty glass, and it goes out with a faint hiss and a trail of smoke.

You ash your cigarette lazily over the balcony, then reach over and stub it out right next to mine, sending a second smoke trail up from the melted ice in my glass. I must look scandalized, because you laugh.

“Manners, Edge. Honestly.”

“Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m the only one here who’s allowed to behave like an obnoxious rock star.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s in my contract.”

“Where can I get one of those contracts?”

“Oh, I see. You want to be an obnoxious rock star too, The Edge?”

“And what if I do?”

“You’ll have to fill out an application.” I pretend to look you up and down. “I don’t know if you’ll pass. I hear you’re pretty fucking nice.”

“Who told you that?”

“Oh, I dunno. I think I heard you say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to the limo driver last night.” I give you a stern look. “And you haven’t thrown a single television out the window. Two world tours, not one broken television.”

“Fuckin’ hell. I keep forgetting.”

“That’ll never do.”

A humid breeze rustles the palm trees below the balcony, lit up from below by the glow of the hotel pool. The party roars on behind us, muffled by the glass doors of the balcony.

I can’t help stealing glances at you, even though I’ve seen you every day for years. You’re uncharted territory these days, and I feel like I’m finding my way to you all over again. You’ve abandoned your familiar cowboy hats and bandanas, and your hair is coiled in a knot at the nape of your neck, new black beanie pulled down over your ears. The raw hem of your pink shirt frames your bare arms, bent at the elbows as you lean on the railing. Your bare arms. My god.

Unable to help myself, I run a finger along the frayed seam of your shirt. “I like this, you know.”

Your smile is almost shy. “It’s a little much.”

“That’s the entire point. You look like an acid flashback. Like Jimi Hendrix meets MTV.”

“Says the man who wears a patent leather suit for half the show.”

“That’s not me, Edge. That’s the Fly.”

“Whatever you say, B.”

“I’m just saying. I like this on you.”

My fingers won’t leave your damn shirt alone. They linger on your shoulder, playing with the hem. You don’t seem to mind.

“I think I like it too,” you say quietly, in that resonant voice of yours. You say it like you’ve decided something important, as if all this Zoo lunacy has explained itself.

“Good,” I say, and kiss you on the cheek.

It’s meant to be a bit of nothing. Christ, I kiss people all the time, have you met me? I’ve kissed Adam, I’ve kissed Larry, I’ve certainly kissed you before.

But this isn’t nothing, not this time. My lips brush the faint stubble on your cheek and it feels like I’m dangling from this balcony by one finger, like I’m about to fall into the night and drown.

You let out a sigh, the tiniest of noises. If I wasn’t imagining things, I’d think you leaned closer, just a fraction, but I’m a little drunk, Edge, and I can’t think straight after that show. My brain’s about as useful as that empty glass next to us with two stubbed-out cigarettes in it.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, with my useless empty glass of a brain.

* * *

I’m not sure who’s driving.

You lead me through the party, dutiful wingman that you are, nodding and smiling to people as if we’re perfectly innocent rock stars who are absolutely not about to do anything unwise or foolish. You’re so good at this, I start to believe it myself. _We’re going to turn in, it’s been a long night, hasn’t it? Yeah, we’re both knackered. Thanks so much for coming. It’s going to be a great tour._

Paul, standing next to a cluster of men in suits, spots us across the room and gives me a look that says _oh good, Bono, you need to talk to these important industry arseholes._ Genius that you are, Edge, you recognize that look. You propel me in his direction, past trays of drinks and small clusters of beautiful people. It really is a good party.

“Hey, Paul, we’re takin' off,” you tell him, hand firmly on one of my shoulders. You nod politely to the cluster of suits. “I’m gonna make sure this one stops talking and gets to bed.”

For a moment Paul looks chagrined, but he clearly thinks your idea is both wise and practical. He nods and claps me on the other shoulder. “Good plan. Night, Bono. Hell of a show.”

I give Paul’s industry arseholes an airy wave and let you steer me to the door. Ordinarily I would stay, because honestly, it is our party, but -- Paul’s right. You are both wise and practical, and your wise, practical hand is occasionally straying to the small of my back as we weave through this crowded room. It’s definitely in my best interest that I leave this party at once.

We’re halfway down the long hotel hallway to the band’s private suites before I realize leaving was supposed to be my idea. How, exactly, did you take charge?

I fumble for my room key. “Stay for a while. We can order room service.”

You smirk, watching me unlock the door. “I’m not that hungry.”

The lock clicks and I shove the heavy door open with my shoulder. You follow me inside to my standard-issue rock star suite with its plush bed decked out in ivory sheets. Someone’s set the thermostat to Arctic levels, turned down the bed, and piled my explosion of clothing and suitcases into one corner. A fruit basket waits expectantly on the glass coffee table in the sitting area. I have a feeling your room must look the same, but I don’t want you to set foot in it tonight.

Well then.

The suite door falls shut behind us and locks with a percussive thunk. You stand in the dim hallway, watching me. Waiting for something. You’re so patient, always so patient with me, but your even-keel manner doesn’t feel as calm as usual. Your stance looks tense, your hands shoved uneasily in the pockets of your frankly insane embellished black jeans. You raise your eyebrows, which arch up to the brim of your new beanie.

It’s that look that does me in, that look I know so well, your clever, innocent, curious expression. Except now it’s tempered with something new, something a little less... virtuous. Can that be right?

We’ve grown up, you and I. I remember when you were just knees and elbows and front teeth. I remember when your shoulders were as narrow as your little sister’s, and now I can’t help staring at the mathematical curve of muscle there. The years have added layers to you, complexity and weight and nuance. For fuck’s sake, I remember when you barely had to shave. Right now I could run my thumb over the stubble of half a day’s beard on your cheeks. Should I do that?

What would you do, if I did?

We’ve had girlfriends, serious ones, on and off. We’ve each indulged in dalliances after gigs -- girls in bars, girls at the stage door, all lighthearted and fun and a little bit distant. We’ve stayed up late talking about relationships, about meaningless flings and starry-eyed crushes and the ones we thought would be forever. You know me. I can talk all night.

I know you, too. I know what you think about love, about lust, about trust and honesty and connection and God. I know you better than I know any other living soul, but I have no idea what you will think when I reach for you. The desire is so strong it feels like it might crush me. It feels like I could burn us both to the ground.

You swallow, and I can see your pulse just at your throat, even in the dim light, fast like a rabbit. Oh, Edge. I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, but there’s no stopping it. I knew it from the minute you put on that damn shirt.

It’s going to be a real kiss this time.

We are kissing, my God, it’s a breathless, fervent, searing kiss, and I’m not sure who started it. I thought I was driving, but you leaned in, and --

Isn’t that just like us.

Your tongue slips between my lips, all sweetness and sin, and your nimble hands twine into the hair at the back of my neck. I can’t believe we’ve never done this before. The scent of you is everywhere, so familiar -- all of this is so familiar. We’ve come so close to doing this without realizing it. I’ve brushed my lips across your cheek, you’ve held my hand, I’ve put my head on your shoulder, you’ve wrapped me up in your arms -- and all of it was barely a breath away from this. My body knows how you will move, knows you’re about to tilt your head and pull me closer. We nearly got here so many times.

We stagger, overwhelmed, and it’s your coordination and quick thinking that keeps us upright -- isn’t that always true? You take a few deft steps, steer me with your weight, and my shoulders hit the wall behind us. I can’t help a grateful moan, because my knees want to buckle. I can hardly stand up when you’re kissing me. You’re kissing me, Edge. Holy mother of Christ.

I haven’t kissed a man before, but it doesn’t seem to matter. This is _you_. My hands stray to your sides, and you make a noise down low in your throat that nearly does me in. You push me against the wall, your hands on my shoulders, and I throw my head back, and you skate tender kisses down the length of my neck. Oh my God. You know exactly what will undo me, and that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it?

I must be talking, because you murmur in response, and I can feel the sound straight through my chest. What am I saying? _Never stop._ I hope that’s what it is. I hope I’m telling you to take me apart.

You slot your legs between mine, and our bodies line up like a puzzle, like the yin-yang pair we are. It’s so perfect it’s almost painful, and I can’t believe we waited, that we hovered near each other for so many years without slotting into place.

We deserve this, Edge. We were so good for so long, so rational, so serious, and this, right now, is everything we’ve missed. One night of Zoo madness and we’re unleashed at last. I can feel years behind each kiss, hours and weeks and days of wanting that were buried beneath our good intentions. Best friends, yes. But always more than that. Let’s be honest.

You break off, breathing hard, and your forehead falls against my shoulder. “God. Bono.”

I have no words. I’m the bloody lyricist and my mind is blank. I can only run my hands over the strong curve of your shoulders, over the tight corded muscles at the back of your neck, until you look up again. Your eyes are dark, darker than they’ve ever been, and full of things I don’t know how to name. My heart hammers like it wants to pound straight into you. You can have it. You already do.

Your eyes, dark as they are right now, don’t say what you’re thinking. A pang of doubt hits me like a blow. I’m a little drunk; you’re a little drunk. Maybe we’re making a vast, irrevocable mistake. You’re my voice of reason, but you followed me straight off this cliff. Or maybe we jumped together.

Are you okay, Edge?

My eyes must be an open book like the rest of me. The corner of your mouth twitches up, and you reach out with your beautiful hand and brush my sweaty hair out of my face.

“Can’t say I’ve ever shut you up before.”

I laugh, voice rough in my ears. “First time for everything.”

You smooth back another strand of my hair and let your fingers skim over my cheek. “Apparently so.”

My mouth goes dry at the glow of affection in your eyes. I reach for your wandering hand, lace it with my own, bring it to my mouth and kiss it.

“Yeah, I’ll have to remember this,” you say quietly.

This is so much more than lust, and now that we’re staring it in the face, eye to eye, it’s hard to look away.

“I’d like to kiss you again,” I say. “That all right?”

A shy grin. “I wish you would.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“I’m tired of being careful.”

That’s the thing about us: we’re always on the same page when it matters.

I raise a devilish eyebrow. “Fuck being careful.”

Your grin widens, and you nod in the direction of my perfectly turned-down hotel bed. “C’mon, B.”

* * *

The crisp ivory sheets on my plush hotel bed are no longer perfectly turned down. They swirl around us like a glorious hedonistic cocoon, untucked, undone. We have at least three pillows each, but six more have ended up on the floor. Surely this hotel must be responsible for some kind of global pillow shortage.

Sleep pulls at me with urgent force, but I ignore it. You’re a warm, solid weight against my side, bathed in the dim light from the television, sound on permanent mute. Colors flicker across the sharp planes of your face, as if the Zoo TV projections have followed us here. I suppose they have.

I could watch you all night. Your hat is gone, probably lost somewhere in the pile of clothing on the floor, and your head’s a beautiful shape, though you’d never believe me if I said it. Your hair is still pulled back in a knot at the base of your neck, but the arch of your vanishing hairline gives you a startling vulnerability, a nakedness you’re determined to hide. I can’t believe I’m the one who gets to see it.

I can’t believe I got to witness all of your nakedness, Edge, your hard, strong chest and tapered waist -- you’ll have to explain that to me, I’ve never had one myself -- the ridges of your hipbones, your pale, sweet shoulders, your darkly curled body hair, the smooth, satiny skin of your cock in my hand.

And the look on your face when you closed your eyes, tipped your head back, when you were finally overcome --

I wonder if this is what the devil feels like, luring innocent souls into temptation. A heady, dangerous rush, a hunger that never lets up, desire that only flares brighter and hotter. All I ever want is to see that look on your face again.

You’ve let your eyes drift shut, your arm flung possessively over my chest, but you open them. A crease of concern appears between your eyebrows.

“You should get some sleep,” you murmur.

“Impossible.”

“Your body will thank me.”

“My body’s already thanked you, love.”

The endearment slips out before I can stop it. You blink and study me for a moment, your hand tracing gentle patterns across my chest. I think you can feel my heart beating faster.

“I’d like your body to thank me again,” you say, with your even-keel calm. “But it won’t be up for much if you don’t give it some rest.”

I sigh, heart still tripping, but my slip doesn’t seem to have scared you away. “Always the voice of reason, The Edge.”

You rise up on one elbow, on your side, to look at me. “Not always.”

You give me one of your slow, sphinx-like smiles, and it’s only then that I realize what you’ve just said. _Again._ You want to do this again.

I think about your bright pink shirt, now crumpled somewhere on the floor, and grin back at you, a grin that probably has far too much love in it. I don't care.

“You’re right,” I say, and lean in to kiss you. “You’re not.”

I imagine there are a few things we need to discuss. I imagine we’ll get there at some point, because we talk a lot, you and I. But right now, some of it’s too big to say. We’ll stay here, Edge, in this space between sin and salvation, in this perfect cocoon of hotel sheets, and maybe we’ll sleep.

Or maybe not.


End file.
